The Heart Has Its Reasons That Nobody Knows
by andyoureturntome
Summary: John and Sherlock are just learning to navigate through their relationship. After over a year of not being in contact, Irene Adler shows up on their doorstep with the surprise of a lifetime. Parentlock. Johnlock. Fluff.
1. Chapter 1

**Sherlock, series 3 happened, and I am not okay. I'm freaking the heck out, and I am overloaded with FEELINGS.**

**Hello, fanfiction, my old friend.**

**Obligatory notice: I own neither Sherlock nor the characters. I'm just borrowing them to act out my headcanon. I don't write for profit...I just write to keep my Johnlock ship afloat.**

**AU (duh), might get a little OOC. Definitely gonna be fluffy. So fluffy.**

* * *

1. Something Strange Comes from Nothing At All

She appeared without announcement or ceremony, large as life and definitely not dead. John had been too shocked to say or do anything as she breezed by him through the doorway and situated herself quite comfortably in the chair that he normally occupied. This was no surprise; she'd let herself into their flat without their permission (and sometimes knowledge) many times before. After a delayed moment of processing what had just happened, John shut the door—the dull thud not quite capturing the shock of the moment—and turned to stare at her, eyes bulging.

Quickly, he trained his face to be an unconcerned mask. All this time living with Sherlock had taught him to approach the mystifying with pronounced indifference. He sat on the couch opposite her, determined not to be the first to break the silence.

John stared at the woman, a twitch working in the corner of his mouth. He hadn't taken to her much the first time they'd crossed paths, and she'd done little to endear her to him further. There was also the annoying fact that she'd had a curious effect on Sherlock. If Sherlock wasn't so averse to showing emotions, John would have suspected that he had nursed a bit of an infatuation for her. Unconsciously, John's hand curled into a fist. A nerve jumped in his neck as he clenched his jaw. Running his hand along the arm of the couch, he tried to get his emotions under control. A gust of air burst out from him; he hadn't realized he was holding his breath until now.

Though he knew it was ridiculous, something like jealousy curled in the pit of his stomach. Her lips turned upward into a taunting, crimson smile. John was just opening his mouth to say something when the door burst open. A mixture of relief and dread flooded through John as he took in Sherlock's long, lithe form stepping into the room. Glad as he was to see him, he was still worried about how he would react to The Woman.

John strained to catch his eye, but Sherlock's gaze was trained on his phone. Something was off in his expression, though. Absent in his face was the usual intensive focus; gone in his posture was the frenetic vitality. His normally clear blue eyes were clouded. He moved slowly, woodenly, and every movement seemed to take draining concentration.

"Sherlock, I'm glad you're home. You know how I worry when you stay out so late without me."

Blearily, Sherlock raised his head to stare at John. His eyes narrowed slightly as he brought John into sharper focus. The phone disappeared somewhere within the folds of his coat.

"Sorry, my dear," he murmured indistinctly.

Unsteadily, he moved through the room, stumbling slightly. He leaned over and lightly pressed his lips to John's. The gesture seemed out of character, but John returned it readily enough, forgetting Irene was there for a moment as he brought up a hand to caress Sherlock's cheek. They broke apart, and Sherlock's breathing seemed to be more labored than normal. He gripped John's shoulder tightly and used him as a crutch to settle himself heavily on the couch.

Surprise danced across Irene's face, and she covered it quickly but not before John noticed. If he hadn't been so worried about Sherlock's strange behavior, he would have been smug to see the displeasure creasing between her eyes. She recovered quickly, and her normal mask of coy indifference descended again.

Sherlock sagged against John, closing his eyes. He still hadn't taken off his coat despite the heat of the room. His fingers curled delicately around John's hand, and his usual pallor took on a gray tone. His shallow breaths were the only sound that broke through the room's tense silence. John tried not to show just how alarmed he was as he nudged Sherlock's shoulder.

"Well, that was quite a greeting." A glint flashed through Irene's eyes, but it wasn't the spark of amusement that shone there. "Nothing for me?"

John hackled at the implication but held his tongue. Languorously, Sherlock opened his eyes to survey their guest. Behind the torpidity of his movements, John could see the flicker of surprise in Sherlock's eyes. This only deepened his worry; it was unlike Sherlock to miss anything, especially something as unsettling as this woman's presence. Instead of acknowledging her, he turned to John, an apology in his eyes.

"I probably should have mentioned…Irene Adler isn't dead."

Leave it Sherlock to make such bald remarks in the face of such strange circumstances. There was distant distress in his voice, and John knew that behind whatever was affecting him was a genuine concern that he would be angry for concealing this for so long. He brought a placating hand to rub along his arm.

"It's fine."

Sherlock's head rolled into John's shoulder, a small, relieved smile flitting across his face for a second. John's frown deepened. He needed to speak to Sherlock privately and figure out what was wrong. Irene was watching them closely, and John shifted so that his body was at least partially blocking Sherlock from her view. He tucked his head lower so he could whisper in his ear.

"Are you okay?"

With a groan, Sherlock tried to nod, but his head could only dejectedly bob up and down. John's grip on his hand tightened. His worry was reaching desperate levels. Almost as though answering his silent pleas, Mrs. Hudson appeared in their doorway, a fond smile crossing her face.

"Sherlock, dear, I thought I heard you come in!"

"Mrs. Hudson!" John interjected. "Just who I was hoping to see. Would you mind sitting with our guest for a moment?"

"Well, alright, dear, but—"

"Great! We'll only be a moment."

John hefted Sherlock to his feet as Mrs. Hudson—looking slightly disgruntled—moved to sit on the couch they had just evacuated. Propelling an unresisting Sherlock down the hallway, John guided him into the bathroom and had him sit on the end of the tub. Gently, he tugged off his coat. A sound that was a strangled mixture between a gasp and a groan escaped John's mouth as he took in the crimson-soaked fabric of Sherlock's shirt.

With swift fingers, John unbuttoned the shirt and pushed it off of his left shoulder. Quickly, he wetted a towel and tried to mop up the blood. There was a _lot_ of it, and John felt his stomach clench in alarm. With a hiss, Sherlock gritted his teeth against the pain. John winced empathetically and studied the gash in Sherlock's side. Despite his tentative touch, he could tell that he was still causing pain.

"It's deep. What was it? A knife wound?"

Sherlock gave a tight nod, and John's mouth set in a grim line.

"I don't think it punctured any major organs, but you should probably go to the hospital. You'll need stiches at the very least."

"No!" Sherlock spoke forcefully for the first time since coming home. "Can't you do it? I don't like anyone touching me but you."

"Okay, okay." John spoke in soothing tones and pushed his fingers through Sherlock's hair, trying to calm him down. He pushed to his feet with a grunt.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock's head swiveled around in alarm.

"I'm just going to get my kit so I can clean you up."

John pressed a kiss to his temple, and his agitation abated somewhat.

"What?" John asked, smiling in spite of himself as he took in the mushy look on Sherlock's face.

"I like when you do that. I can tell that it's something you've only ever done to me."

"Maybe I should drain you of blood more often." Wry amusement colored John's tone upon hearing Sherlock's somewhat inane declaration. "You're pretty affectionate when you're half-dead."

"Oh, don't be dramatic, John. I'm not _half_-dead. Maybe a quarter."

John snorted.

"Sherlock Holmes, telling someone not to be dramatic?"

Impulsively, he pressed another kiss to his temple before leaving the room. As he crossed into the kitchen to gather his supplies, both Irene and Mrs. Hudson's heads snapped up to watch his progress. They both had steaming cups of tea in front of them, and he figured that Mrs. Hudson had made them.

"John, dear, I have a pie in the oven downstairs that I really must see to, and—"

"Good, good, Mrs. Hudson," John replied distractedly without really hearing her. He disappeared back into the bathroom, leaving the two women alone to regard one another awkwardly. With a slight fluttering of her hands, she looked at Irene.

"You'll be fine on your own, won't you? I shouldn't be gone more than a minute."

At Irene's nod, Mrs. Hudson bustled off, leaving the woman alone. Lithely, she got to her feet and trailed down the hall to where John and Sherlock had disappeared. Hovering undetected in the doorway of the bathroom, she watched the two of them, huddled together. Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, and he was pressing a towel to his side. John was kneeling at his feet, and Irene watched as he gingerly pushed away Sherlock's hand.

He dabbed a rather ugly looking cut with antiseptic, and Sherlock flinched but otherwise didn't indicate that he was in pain. With an apologetic frown, John began stitching up Sherlock's side. Neither man said anything, but there was an obvious intimacy between them, and Irene thought again about the kiss they'd shared. The last time she'd seen them, they had been rather resolutely classified as friends, but it was clear that they were something more now.

"And just what were you doing that got you knifed?" John tried to sound angry, but the worry slipped in, and just a touch of affection.

"Solving a case, of course."

"Judging by how pleased you sound, I'd guess that you solved it?"

"Of course," he shot back somewhat smugly. "Child's play." This was punctuated by another wince, which John quickly apologized for causing.

"Oh, Sherlock," John sighed exasperatedly. "You're a mess."

"Still love me?" Sherlock quirked a brow and shot him a half-smile.

"Of course, you idiot."

Having finished stitching the wound, John lifted Sherlock's hand and pressed a kiss against his knuckles. Sherlock tucked his head lower, and John brought his hand to his cheek and kissed him deeply, knowing that was what he was looking for.

Not wanting to see any more, Irene walked back the way she came and settled on the couch again, taking her tea back in hand. Her fingernails clicked impatiently on the cup that she was holding rather more tightly than she realized. The porcelain was cold in her hands, and the red of her nails stood out starkly against the white.

When John rejoined her, it was with a tautly lined, visibly strained face. Her presence didn't do much to comfort him, she knew. The hard lines of her face stayed intact, though inside, she was crumbling. She didn't know what she was expecting, but it wasn't this. It wasn't as though she was expecting to run into Sherlock's arms so he could save her. But still, she'd hoped her sudden reappearance in his life would have caused more of a splash, or a ripple at least. John cleared his throat a bit awkwardly, and she trained her piercing gaze on him.

"And are we still not a couple, Dr. Watson?"

She inclined her chin over John's shoulder, in the general direction in which Sherlock had disappeared. He made no answer but to glare at her.

"Oh, no matter. I already know the answer."

Her tone was meant to be haughty, amused, but there was a slight hitch in her words, and she was grateful that Sherlock wasn't there to deduce what it meant.

"You really do love each other, don't you?"

She spoke in a soft voice that seemed incongruous with her sharp features. More vulnerability slipped in than she'd meant, but desperation had a way of fraying even the sharpest of edges.

"Well, that's as good as anything else, I guess. Expectations aside… There really isn't another option, anyway. It's not as though I have many choices."

Her musings took on the slower cadence of one talking to one's self, and her focus shifted from John to unseeingly take in the now cold cup of tea that she still held, vicelike in her hands. Tiredly, John ran his hands over his face as he took in her fragmented speech. With a sigh that was more like a huff, he pointedly cleared his throat.

"Sorry, but did you need me for any of this?"

It came out a little sharper than necessary, but he was worried about Sherlock. After he'd stitched him up, he'd led him to bed. Though he'd gone unresistingly, John still would feel better if he was in there with him and lying beside him.

Irene's mouth turned down slightly.

"No, Dr. Watson. I don't need you at all."

And then she was gone in a flutter of silk and fur, her stilettos making sharp, efficient clicks as she walked down the stairs.

Utterly mystified, John rose from the couch and turned out the lights, leaving their flat humming with the strange white noise of night. He made his way through the dark, his troubled mind weighing him down. As he slid into bed, he felt Sherlock stir beside him, and he placed a soothing hand on his forehead.

"John?" Sherlock instinctively rolled toward him and buried his head into his chest. "What did The Woman want" he whispered against the cotton of his shirt.

"Nothing," he said, stymied. His arms automatically came around Sherlock and pulled him close. "Nothing at all."

* * *

Nearly nine months passed without any mention of the woman. She lay forgotten in the backs of their minds, one of many strange visitors they hosted. But still, every now and then, John's mind would wander over to thoughts of her. Once he'd learned that she was still alive, he made Sherlock explain just how she'd managed that. Of course, Sherlock himself had been involved in her escape. Though he tried to suppress his jealousy, bits of it still slipped out as he made sure that Sherlock definitely, absolutely had no feelings whatsoever for her. Satisfied at least on that point, John had let the matter drop, deciding that it was better to let Irene fade from consciousness rather than continually foist the topic between them.

One night that was so late that it could more accurately be called early morning, John and Sherlock stumbled out of a cab, exhaustion making their motions clumsy. They'd just finished a draining case that had consumed the majority of their energies and faculties for the better part of a week. John wanted nothing more than to collapse in bed and sleep.

John opened the door to their building, fully expecting to upstairs and asleep within the next few minutes. What he was greeted to instead was the sight of Irene Adler, in their stairwell, doubled over in pain. The first thing he noticed was the blood spattered across her (whether it was hers or someone else's, he couldn't tell). The second thing he noticed was her swollen stomach.

Both men were robbed of speech upon seeing her, possibly dying, clearly in labor.

Sherlock looked at John, his eyes unreadable.

"I'll call the ambulance, shall I?"

* * *

**No idea where I'm going with this in the long run, but hopefully the journey will be fun!**

**Thanks to anyone who read! xxx**


	2. Chapter 2

2. Oh, There's an Answer

"Actually, no, probably shouldn't," Sherlock muttered, answering his own question before John even had a chance to respond.

He affixed his eyes—now a silver-blue color—on her and assumed the look he always got when he was studying something extremely interesting. _Instead of, you know, a very pregnant woman in a rather dire situation,_ John thought dazedly. Her gasp of pain brought him back to the present, and he quickly forgot his exasperation with his currently useless boyfriend and went to Irene's side. In this moment, she wasn't The Woman; she was a patient, and John had a life to save.

Rolling up his sleeves, he advanced toward her carefully, palms raised to indicate that he meant her no harm. It was a testament to her desperate situation rather than any trust in him that she let him approach. She stiffened as his surgeon's fingers began tracing over her skin, assessing the damage.

"Christ," he muttered. There were small incisions littered all over her body, all of them weeping red. Though they were all fairly shallow, the sheer number of them meant that she was losing an alarming amount of blood at far too rapid a rate. He wasn't even sure how she was still conscious. His stomach turned over at the sadistic violence wrought on her. She needed immediate medical attention if she or the child were going to make it.

"Call the ambulance." His voice was hard, commanding, and not to be argued with. Sherlock had an easy enough time ignoring it, however.

"—quite the predicament," he was saying as he paced slightly. Focused as he was on his task, John still had the presence of mind to be annoyed with Sherlock's unconcerned ramblings. He did this all the time: just carried on thinking aloud regardless of whether or not John was listening or even present. "We can't very well have a dead woman turn up at the hospital."

"Sherlock."

Irene's breathing hitched, and she brought a death grip to John's arm.

"So an ambulance is out then."

She was starting to sag, and John brought an arm around her unsteady form. A tight ball of anxiety settled just below his sternum. He fought for breath as he took on more and more of her weight.

"Sher. Lock."

"We'll need Mycroft then."

He brought her now-unconscious form to the ground, and, keeping one hand at her wrist to track her pulse, he tried to bring her back around.

"SHERLOCK!"

"No need to shout, John. I'm right here."

John took a few steadying breaths to remind himself that it would not be helpful to punch Sherlock at this particular moment and instead shot him a look that at least cowed the daft, frustratingly unaware man temporarily before turning back to the unconscious woman.

"Call. Bloody. Mycroft. Then." He spit the words out between gritted teeth.

"No need, brother mine."

Mycroft strolled in, face serene, suit unrumpled. The tip of the ubiquitous umbrella landed on the ground at his side, making a disapproving tap. He stood with his feet slightly apart and his free hand tucked behind his back. Men rushed in past him and efficiently removed the limp body from John's unresisting arms before disappearing into a dark van with her. As they watched it speed away through the open door, John found that he was strangely winded.

Sherlock mirrored his brother's pose, and the two of them stood opposite one another, eyes slightly narrowed, mouths tense.

"Come on, John," Sherlock said without looking at him. "I do believe that we might have some explaining to do."

"We?!" John sputtered at the exact moment that Mycroft hissed "_might?_"

With an impatient sigh for them both, Sherlock crossed the room and offered his hand to John and helped him to his feet. As he did this, Mycroft turned and headed for the door and paused on the threshold. Though Sherlock was moving calmly enough, John could see the tightness around his eyes as they stared at one another, and he suddenly understood. Keeping secrets from Mycroft was like keeping secrets from the British government. A bit not good.

"Sherlock," Mycroft hovered impatiently at the door.

"Coming…brother, mine."

The three of them climbed into the black sedan idling just outside, Mycroft in the seat across from the two of them. The car slid away, gliding through traffic, presumably following the van that contained Irene. John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He suddenly felt like he and Sherlock were extremely naughty children, about to be told off by their mother.

"So, Irene Adler isn't dead, then?"

"Demonstrably, no."

"Oh, how wonderfully romantic," Mycroft lilted sardonically. "Sherlock Holmes, international man of mystery, rescuing damsels in distress, left and right."

The chiding took on an acidic edge as he turned his gaze on John, clearly including him in the last category. He bristled at the entire speech, hating the implication Mycroft made about Sherlock's motivations and hating that he saw John as helpless. Sherlock took his hand and threw John off guard, causing him to momentarily forget his anger. It was rare for Sherlock to engage in public displays of affection. Instead of bringing him comfort, however, John found that the gesture put him on edge and made him wary of Sherlock's intentions. Anything abnormal about his behavior always heightened John's senses, made him wonder what danger they were facing. Everything Sherlock did was intentional, and he often used physical distractions to keep John from picking up on other things. He wondered what manipulation this was.

"You're just jealous that she didn't want to see you either time she came to see me."

This caught Mycroft's attention.

"She's been to see you before?"

John could practically feel Sherlock swell with satisfaction at his brother's aggravation. He began running his thumb soothingly over his hand.

"Of course she has," Mycroft answered himself. "She was clever to avoid our detection." His eyes snapped up to meet Sherlock's. "Dangerously so."

"But now she's made a mistake. Got herself in deep. You saw the state of her."

"Mmm. The baby," John interjected. Sherlock bestowed a look of annoying superiority upon him.

"Don't you ever see anything important? I was talking about the cuts all over her body. Mycroft, you're familiar with brutal interrogation techniques. Whatever they were trying to extract from her, it must have been important."

"Is that why she came to see you the first time? For help with whomever she was trying to evade?"

"We're not sure why she came to us. She didn't stay for very long and she left before telling us anything of importance."

John could see the telltale annoyance in Sherlock's expression. The man hated not being able to solve a mystery.

Mycroft said nothing as the car lurched to a stop. Glancing out the window, John saw that they had pulled up in front of a large, nondescript building. They were in a part of town he'd never seen before, though he had no doubt that Sherlock knew exactly where they were. At some point, their fingers had laced together, and they stayed connected as they got out of the car.

Sherlock wouldn't let go, going so far as to pull him through the revolving door with him. This only ground up John's suspicions further. They stepped into a lavishly decorated lobby with Mycroft following behind them closely. Their footsteps echoed loudly over the marble floor as they made their way to the elevator banks. The floors pinged by as they rode their way up in silence.

John bit back the questions that came to mind and tried to make some deductions of his own. Clearly, Mycroft had agreed with Sherlock that it would be imprudent to take Irene to a hospital, so this must be some kind of private practice. No doubt, all of the doctors were under Mycroft's employ and sworn to the utmost secrecy. And if Irene was receiving medical attention, that meant that Mycroft had decided that it was worthwhile to keep her alive. That was as far as his reasoning got him. Beyond that, he had no idea what this would mean for him or Sherlock.

For his part, Mycroft looked largely annoyed and as though he was dealing with a particularly unpleasant pest instead of a matter of national security. _That had to be a good sign_, John reflected. Never one to expose any sort of panic, Mycroft still didn't pull any punches, and if concealing Irene Adler's true fate had been damaging on a large scale, they would have heard about it by now. For the moment, this was contained. Irene was an unknown entity. They would proceed with caution.

The elevator came to a smooth halt, and the doors slid open soundlessly, depositing them on a floor very near to the top of the building. Sherlock pulled him into what was an expensively furnished waiting room and guided him onto a plush couch. There was a counter at the far end of the room with a woman sitting behind it. She gave them a blank smile reminiscent of those given by all of Mycroft's employees.

Sure enough, Sherlock's enigmatic brother walked past them, ignoring them completely, and approached her. They spoke briefly across the counter before Mycroft disappeared through the doors to the right of the reception desk.

"Mycroft has places like this all over the city," Sherlock remarked conversationally, sweeping his arm across the space. "With the business that he does, it's prudent for him to have access to discreet medical attention."

John nodded and Sherlock finally released his hand. He sprang to his feet and started pacing around the room.

"So why are we here?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock was distracted, lost in his own thoughts.

"Sherlock, why are we here?"

"Well, they found her with us. For all Mycroft knows, we could be in collusion with her."

"No." John's suspicions were piqued. "Mycroft can read a situation better than you. He knows that we aren't involved with her. Are we?" The last bit came out sharp, like a challenge.

Sherlock's mouth turned down.

"Of course not, John. I think her initial visit with us was to recruit us into helping with whatever she's gotten herself mixed up in. But for some reason, she changed her mind. Maybe it was pride. She decided that she could handle it on her own. She came back to see us tonight because she was wrong. She needed help. She was in over her head."

"Did you ever think she came back for a different reason?"

John felt his frustration soar as Sherlock looked at him, puzzled.

"What reason?"

"Oh, I don't know. The baby?"

"Yes, John, you're right!" He clapped his hands together. He turned away from John and walked the length of the room. "That is strange, isn't it? The baby. That is quite the mistake for a woman who does what she does for a living. And why would she keep it? She's smart. She survives by looking out primarily for herself and not taking on any unnecessary risks. The only time she's ever made a mistake is when sentiment got in the way—oh!"

He whirled around to face John again. Fists clenched at his sides, John was on his feet without any memory of standing up. His blood was racing at an angry, boiling rate.

"Yeah, 'oh,' you great git! Is that why you were so affectionate in the car? Were you trying to distract me? Trying to establish an emotional connection so I wouldn't be angry once I figured it out?"

"John—"

"You told me there was nothing between the two of you!"

"John."

"I should have known…sentiment. Sentiment!"

His speech devolved as his rage colored his vision in a red sheen. He was advancing towards Sherlock, hands flexing violently as he backed him towards the wall. Without quite realizing it, he had begun shouting, and his words echoed around the empty waiting room. The woman at reception was calmly typing away at her computer and paying them no mind as though it was the most natural thing in the world for these two men to be having a domestic in a top-secret government medical facility.

John had Sherlock pressed up against the wall, his hand around his throat. Sherlock was looking at him with slightly bulging eyes, and whether it was from fear or lack of air, John couldn't tell.

"Perhaps I should mention," he gasped, "that I'm not the father."

John's grasp slackened somewhat. He blinked numbly.

"What?"

"Think, John. Think! When would we have had time to…and besides, she was pregnant when she came to us the first time."

"Oh, and you could tell that just from looking at her in your half-conscious state? You'd lost so much blood that you didn't even realize she was in the room, let alone deduce that she was pregnant."

"Hindsight. It only makes sense. The last time we saw her was eight months, one week, two days ago. Likely, she had just found out about the baby, and she came to us for help." His hand came up tentatively to John's, and he pulled it off of his throat. "She nursed an affection for me, yes, but that was a long time ago. Someone else has replaced me. Someone she trusted enough to let him all the way in. Someone she loved enough to carry his child."

"But she's gay."

"And you're not," Sherlock said, his voice deep as he placed a light, cautious kiss to John's lips. Without any hesitation, John returned and deepened it. Their fingers curled together, and John felt the tension seep out of his spine. Sherlock reacted in kind, his physical responses subconsciously attuned to mirror John's.

"There are always exceptions, my John. So whoever this man was, he made quite the impression. And if I had to guess, he's the one she's running from now."

"You never guess."

"Sometimes I do," a small half-smile lifted at the corner of his mouth. "But you're right this time. I didn't guess. If she loved and trusted this man, why not go to him when she found out she was pregnant?"

"Maybe she wanted to keep him safe?"

"No. The type of man she's attracted it to would be like her. Dangerous. Self-sufficient. They would need to be evenly matched, a team. No unnecessary risks, remember? Her partner would need to be someone who could keep up with her and take care of himself. His safety would never be a concern for her because he would make sure it was guaranteed.

"Unfortunately, such qualities also make for a rather good villain. She probably found out she was pregnant with his child after she found out he was the enemy. So she went on the run."

"Very good, Sherlock." Mycroft was back and watching the two of them. If he thought that it was strange to see the two of them pressed up against the wall, he didn't show it.

"So now, the question remains, who is she involved with?"

He swung his umbrella thoughtfully. "Irene Adler is a magnet for danger, and she seems to have a taste for treason. She's likely gotten in with some kind of terrorist cell or criminal network. If she's found herself on the wrong side of such an organization, she could prove useful."

"You mean to make her your asset."

"If she can be persuaded."

"I take it that she's going to live, then."

"She should. They stabilized her, and they took her in for surgery."

"Surgery?"

"Caesarean. There were, complications, and it was deemed the safest way to deliver the baby. You two should get something to eat. It's going to be a while yet, and she'll want to talk to you when she's out."

One of Mycroft's employees brought them breakfast. John found this odd until he realized that it made sense upon calculating that it was midmorning. Sherlock didn't eat. This was unsurprising. John did, which was equally unsurprising. As the hours dragged by, the tension in the room seemed to mount.

"Sherlock, for god's sake, sit down! You're giving me indigestion."

He came to sit uneasily at John's side, practically vibrating with feverish energy. John put a placating hand on his back, and Sherlock relaxed infinitesimally.

"I'm sorry about earlier. I just…got jealous."

"It's okay. After everything I put you through, it's understandable. There's probably no limit to what you think I'm capable of putting you through. But John, I would never do that to you."

John closed his eyes, suddenly remembering how tired he was. The days without sleep stretched out in his mind, and he didn't feel ready to have this conversation. They didn't talk about the fall a lot. Didn't talk about Sherlock coming back. He was alive, and that's what mattered. Those first few months when he had risen from the dead had been hell for them both.

There were still raw spots, even now. Rebuilding trust had been excruciating, a messy maelstrom of emotions. Somewhere along the way, their friendship had turned into something more, and with mortality so pervasively present in their minds, it had seemed ridiculous to pretend that they didn't love each other on a much deeper level. What they had fallen into after that had been messier and harder—and worth it.

John looked at the man beside him and realized that he couldn't love him any more if he tried. But Sherlock was right. There were times when he doubted him. He still woke shaking some nights, convinced that Sherlock was dead, and it took a lot of coaxing to get him back to sleep, even when he was safely ensconced in the man in question's arms.

"I know," he whispered, his voice a little more broken than he would have liked. Sherlock's arm came around him and pulled him close. John tucked his head against his shoulder and was just drifting into blessed sleep when Mycroft's haughty voice again broke through the room.

"She's asking for you—both of you."

Irene sat propped in a clean, white bed, surrounded by clean, white walls. Her already prominent cheekbones were straining against her skin, and her lips were dried and cracked. Her gaze perched first on Sherlock and then slid over to John as they entered the room. Skeletal hands rested on the stiff sheet. Chipped, red nails clawed at the starched fabric. Dead eyes listed away from them to stare out the window.

"I never took your brother to be a particularly generous man, Mr. Holmes, but under the circumstances, he has proven to be downright gracious."

A hint of a smile ghosted over her haunted face.

"Well, with the information you have, you can afford to charge quite the handsome fee."

"I can assure you, what that information cost me far exceeds what I stand to gain."

Her sonorous tones took on the lilt of melancholia, and John felt his heart surge for her in spite of himself.

"What was his name?"

She shrugged.

"Does it really matter? It was probably a lie anyway. I was completely taken in. It was foolish of me, especially after you showed me how ill-advised that was the first time."

Her laugh was just slightly off, but John could see the resilience underneath. The woman had been through unimaginable pain, but she still wasn't broken.

"So what will you do now? Work for my brother?"

"I'm going to take that bastard apart." At this moment, John certainly was glad that he wasn't the man who had crossed Irene Adler. Even Sherlock looked slightly admiring. Surprising strength radiated from the hospital bed, and she stared out at them from over the sharp planes of her face.

A nurse walked into the room, baby swaddled tightly in her arms, and all of her bravado seemed to shatter. She held the bundle out, but Irene only shook her head, her lips pressed together tightly. Slightly daunted, the nurse turned to regard the two men. Sherlock shrank back as thought the wiggling mass of blankets was a bomb about to go off, so John stepped forward and took it.

A tiny hand escaped the fabric cocoon, and John weirdly felt a gasp catch in his throat as he let his finger be captured in the fragile grip. Sherlock hovered uncertainly over his shoulder. The room seemed to be shimmering around the edges a little bit when John looked up.

"I was thinking Hamish might be appropriate," Irene said in a thick voice. She gave a shaky smile, no doubt remembering John's sarcastically offered baby name from all those years ago.

"Don't be ridiculous; John hates that name," Sherlock said loudly.

"Too bad the ink's already dry," Mycroft interrupted, flourishing a birth certificate. "Hamish William Watson-Holmes." Sherlock snatched away the paper and studied it critically.

"All of the records have been falsified, naturally. Ms. Adler's name will appear nowhere on the paperwork, of course."

"Sorry, but what paperwork?" The baby was fussing, and John bounced him lightly as he stared back and forth between the two brothers.

"The adoption paperwork. It was Ms. Adler's intention that the two of you take the child. The official story would be that you obtained him through a closed adoption from a teenage girl who wasn't ready for a baby yet. Neat, don't you think?"

John's mouth went dry, and suddenly, the bundle in his arms seemed very, very heavy. His grasp was going limp, and he pressed the child into Mycroft's chest before pushing his way out of the room. Mycroft whirled around, clearly panicked, and tried to thrust the child at Sherlock, but he recoiled. He followed John out of the room, leaving Mycroft flailing.

He was finally able to decant the squirming bundle into a nurse's arms. With a tug to his jacket, he straightened his suit and left the room, too disgusted and annoyed to even say goodbye to Irene.

John was halfway to the elevator when he stopped and waited for Sherlock to catch up to him. They were both breathing hard when they came face to face, and John put a hand up, begging him to not say anything while he collected his thoughts. Sherlock brought his hands to John's shoulders, and took on the smaller man's weight as he sagged against him.

Finally, after waiting far too long, Sherlock gave him a slight shake. John looked up and ran a hand over his face.

"Oh my god," he breathed, a sigh coming out of him like a gale-force wind.

"I know! Can you believe my brother's nerve? Just foisting this—this—_this _on us?"

"Sherlock," he said tiredly.

"Don't worry. If he can create these records, he can destroy them, too."

"I want to keep him."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to walk away.

* * *

**Everyone who read was super, super nice and amazing, so thankyou! xxx**


	3. Chapter 3

**I had the weirdest dream last night that involved myself, the Golden Globes after party, and a certain actor that plays Sherlock. He engaged in a dance battle over me and won. Suffice it to say, it was all quite thrilling.**

**So, yeah, I had a lot of warm fuzzies that probably have a lot to do with the inspiration behind this chapter!**

* * *

3. When This All is Said and Done, I'm So Sold

"Right," John said to the empty room. "Right."

He hadn't expected a different reaction. Before he had even said the words, he knew he was going to approach it the wrong way. There was an art to talking to Sherlock, and normally, he had endless patience for it. But just now, just this once, he had needed to be heard. Because if he didn't get it out, Sherlock might have done something to undo it all.

Hands on his hips, he stared unseeingly at the inoffensive beige of the opposite wall. His breathing was constricted, and his limbs felt numb. Distantly, he wondered if this was what panic felt like. Or losing his damn mind. A mangled laugh burbled up as he pressed a hand against his forehead. How insane was it that the strangest thing he could imagine was having a baby?

Life with Sherlock had been a paradigm shift to say the least, and he had completely altered his life to accommodate this maddening, all-consuming, human vortex of a man. Never once had he really paused to think about what he'd given up for this life; it had all seemed so petty in the face of what he'd gained, but until this moment, he hadn't realized that he wanted anything else. Again, his mind wandered to that amazing, tiny life that he had held in his arms.

A strange feeling that burned like embers had emanated from it and spread up his arms and through his chest, and even though its source was no longer there, the warmth lingered. Like a light being turned on, John felt something click into place. For the smallest moment, he had felt a flicker of hope and love for the child, had seen his life unfold before him. Though he was no doubt casting a romantic light over the memory, he could still see the picture of him and Sherlock clustered around the baby. A family.

And oh, god, he wanted that. Longed for it. It had never occurred to him to want to be a father, but now that the possibility hovered right there—_right there_—in front of him, so tantalizingly, he couldn't imagine walking away from it.

A vibration against his leg told him that Sherlock was texting him, no doubt wondering why he hadn't followed him, wherever he'd gone. Without looking at it, he silenced the phone. He would talk to Sherlock soon, but there was someone he needed to see first. There was something he needed to understand.

Irene was still propped up against the pillows when he walked back into her room. She was fighting for consciousness, and John could see how taxing it was for her to try and stay awake. After everything she'd been through, it was a marvel that she was still functioning, let alone coherent. She perked up when she saw him, and her eyes tracked his movements through the room.

"Have you come to tell me no, Dr. Watson?"

"No." He shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged. "I've come to ask you why."

"Why, what, exactly?"

"How about you just start with explaining everything, and I'll tell you when to stop."

"I'm sure Sherlock has already figured it all out."

"I'm asking you." John softened his voice and crept closer to her bedside. She sighed sadly before looking deep into his eyes.

"After Sherlock saved me, I went on the run. I'm very good at discretion, so living in hiding was easy. I'm a smart girl; I can take care of myself, but I do have a certain weakness for danger. When I met Godfrey, he seemed to be just like me. He moved in shadows, dealt in secrets. It was all so _sexy_.

"Of course, somewhere along the way, our affair went deeper than a physical connection—at least on my end. It turns out, what he was involved in was far more sinister than I anticipated. Being under Mycroft's employ, I can't divulge more than that; you understand. Anyway, I got close to some sensitive information and then took my leave."

She took some deep breaths and then winced in pain. John lifted a hand to rest on hers but stopped himself at the last minute. All the animosity he bore her had evaporated, but for some reason, a touch, even in comfort, felt far too intimate.

"And then?" he prompted gently.

She cleared her throat and snapped back to attention.

"Well, then, I got some more information. Something that I wasn't quite prepared for."

"You were pregnant."

"Yes." A tear unexpectedly streaked down her cheek. "And I had nowhere to go."

"So you went to Sherlock."

"Yes, well. He can be quite good in a crisis."

"So why'd you leave without getting his help?"

"Well, I was planning on manipulating his attraction for me into helping me. But upon my arrival, I found that his affection was otherwise engaged."

She gave a slender smile and stared at him pointedly.

"With the life I lead, having a baby doesn't really make sense, but I couldn't bring myself to…to…"

"I understand."

"He isn't going to grow up ordinary, Dr. Watson. My genes ensure that."

John snorted and rolled his eyes but couldn't argue with that assertion.

"No matter where he ends up, he isn't going to have a normal life. And I don't want him to grow up with people who don't understand him. I don't want him to know that isolation. To not know who he is. Someday, I want him to know where he came from."

She spoke as though she had some experience with it, and John figured that her fears had to stem from somewhere. For the first time, he took an actual interest in who she was. He wondered what her past looked like and how it had carved out this future for her.

His thoughts wandered again to the baby. Irene was right. Any child of hers could be predisposed to the same cleverness, the same recklessness. And if that was the case, what he would need was a hand to cultivate his genius. But—despite what Irene wanted to believe—he could also turn out to be perfectly average. Either way, he would need a safe and loving home that would protect him and let him grow into who he was meant to be.

"Sherlock and I can give him what he needs." _If I can talk him 'round to it_, John silently tacked on.

"Like I said, I'm a smart girl. I wouldn't have chosen you if I didn't think you were right for it."

Something was bothering him, and she could see it in the frown pulling down at the corner of his mouth. With an inquisitively raised eyebrow and a slight inclination of her sharp chin, she prompted him to speak.

"How do we know you won't take him away from us some day?"

"You have my word. And more importantly, you have his word." She nodded at someone over John's shoulder, and he knew who was standing there before he even turned around.

"She's right, you know." Mycroft smiled tightly at him. "The paperwork is airtight, and I can promise you that no one will be able to take that child from you."

John squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed the lump in his throat. The stakes felt inexplicably high now that he was on the cusp of something this extraordinary.

"Do you want to see him?"

"Yes. Oh, god, yes."

Mycroft stared at him with knowing eyes.

"And what about my dear brother?"

"He had to, uh, step out for a minute, but he'll be back."

"You'll have much to talk about."

"Yeah," John scratched the back of his head. "Yeah, I expect we will."

Irene watched them both with slightly narrowed eyes, and John felt compelled to prove something to her.

"Sherlock doesn't do well with change, but I think deep down, he wants this."

Mycroft looked doubtful but didn't say anything else as he swept from the room. John made to follow him when Irene spoke up softly.

"You made a good man out of him, Dr. Watson," he looked over his shoulder at her and didn't need to ask who she was talking about. "Do the same for my son."

He could only nod before he followed Mycroft down the hall and into a little room where he lay, small and pristine. With heroic effort, John crossed the length of the room to go over to him. At some point, Mycroft had walked away, leaving him alone.

The baby was squirming fitfully in his little crib, and John drifted closer to him and let his hand skim lightly over the peach fuzz of his head. Tiny limbs thrust their way into the air, and though they didn't touch him, they dragged John down just the same. He heard Sherlock enter the room behind him, and he sensed his presence before he felt his arms come softly around his waist.

"What is it about babies that makes people act so irrationally?" Sherlock's deep voice sent shivers down his spine, and he was suddenly very aware of how close his mouth was to his ear.

"They're perfect," John breathed.

"See, that's what I mean!" Sherlock released him suddenly and gestured somewhat wildly in the direction of the crib. "What a ludicrous statement! Nothing is perfect."

"Well, he's pretty darn close."

They were both verging on petulant, John noted as he crossed his arms and tried not to pout. As of right now, there were two babies in the room, and Sherlock was proving to be the bigger handful.

"John, he's not even ours. Sentimentality makes sense on a certain level when understood through the association of ownership, but he's not ours."

"But he could be." Vexation strained through his voice though he tried to stay calm.

Sherlock's sharp gaze pierced through him, swept over his face, took in his tense posture and overwrought expression. John let him see it all. _Please understand how much I want this. Please understand how desperate I am for this_.

"John," Sherlock frowned, "a child is hardly conducive to our lifestyle."

Though he knew better, John let his frustration choose his words and creep into his tone. "I think you mean that the other way 'round."

After thinking about it with furrowed brow for a moment, Sherlock fired back in his ornery, wheedling way, as was his wont. "No, I don't. We were perfectly fine before, and now, you want to change everything."

"No, love, I really don't."

John forced himself to relax his shoulders. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he made himself look at Sherlock, really _look_ at him. Past the haughty façade, behind the hard words, John saw the fear, the doubt.

"John, is this not enough for you?"

He asked it in a small, fragile voice that nearly broke John's heart. _Oh. Oh, Sherlock_. Carefully, he closed the small gap between them. Steady fingers brushed over Sherlock's jaw and moved up to cup his cheek.

"You are everything I could ever want. But there are some voids that even you can't fill."

Dejected, Sherlock seemed to deflate, and he pulled his face away. _Shit_. John wasn't doing a very good job of explaining this. He could see that Sherlock was constructing the next thing he was going to say. That's how he operated, how he extracted information from people: crafty words and dissembling questions.

"Sherlock, just tell me what you're thinking. No games. No tests. Just tell me."

"If I say no," he paused at John's sharp intake of breath. Both of them were steadfastly avoiding looking at the baby. He gave Sherlock a tight nod for him to continue. "If I say no, will you do this without me?"

"Of course not. I've been subjected to enough of your unilateral decisions to know better than to inflict one of my own on you, but Sherlock, you _are _going to listen to what I have to say."

"Okay."

"Well, okay," John said, taken aback. He hadn't expected obstinate Sherlock to be so ameliorative. He reached out for his hand, and without hesitation, Sherlock took it. With reassuring circles traced against his palm, John gently pulled him toward the baby. Both men stared down at him.

"Sherlock, I have no idea how this is going to work. This is impractical, implausible, and possibly insane." Sherlock gave a faint smile before John continued. "But so is loving you, and we seem to manage that just fine." They both laughed at that, and Sherlock looked up at him, a peculiar sheen in his eyes.

"I thought I was supposed to be the one with the mad plans."

"But is it really all that mad? Irene chose us for a reason. We're not conventional by any means, but we're happy. Do you know how many children grow up in broken, toxic environments? What we can guarantee is that he will grow up in a loving, nurturing home."

"Though it might be toxic for a different reason," Sherlock murmured. He reached out a tentative hand that hovered just above him but didn't quite touch.

"Yeah, we'll have to set some ground rules about noxious chemicals and dangerous experiments." John tried to laugh, but the sound was constricted, and tears were pooling at the corners of his eyes.

Sherlock leaned close to the miniature face and squinted at him. Blue eyes that seemed to take up more than half of his face stared back at him. His little nose wrinkled, and his rosy mouth opened and closed experimentally. "Fascinating," he whispered. His tiny chest rose and fell with a hummingbird heartbeat. Raspy breathing came out like a coo. John reached down and took his hand. Sherlock was so absorbed that he barely even registered the touch.

The baby's limbs were still waving, and one of his hands brushed across Sherlock's face. He instantly stiffened, as though an electrical surge pulsed through him. His seized John's hand tightly before dropping it. Impulsively, he brought his arms up as though to lift him from the crib. At the last second, he stopped himself and froze in mid-action.

John put a hand on the small of his back.

"It's okay. You can pick him up."

With rigid, jerky movements that were uncharacteristic of him, Sherlock put his arms around him and lifted him quickly before he could change his mind. His nerve lasted only for the short amount of time that it took to lift the baby from the crib and into the air. After that, his courage seemed to crumple.

"John. John." Utter panic widened his eyes and shot adrenaline through his body. He clasped the baby in his arms, fingers splayed around the bundle, and hunched his shoulders protectively. His knees were slightly bent as though that would give him more stability, and he was shifting his weight back and forth restlessly.

"It's okay. It's okay. You've got him. Just support his head like that," John eased his grip into a different position, "and hold him like this." Both of their chests were heaving, and Sherlock was looking back and forth between him and the baby with bulging eyes. "Good," John coached. "Good." They were both sporting somewhat watery grins, and they laughed rather breathlessly.

John began to withdraw his guiding arms from Sherlock's.

"No!"

"Alright, alright. I'll keep my arms here. Right here."

They looked ridiculous, he was sure: two grown men, jointly clutching something that weighed little more than a sack of flower, but it felt weirdly _right_. And he could see it in Sherlock's eyes that he was over the moon. He understood. Holding him was all it took.

"Oh, god," Sherlock groaned. "We're doing this, aren't we?"

John's hands were suddenly shaking, and the best he could muster was a sniffle of a laugh.

"Hamish William Watson-Holmes." Sherlock said each name with deliberation. John felt the fluttering of distaste when he said the first name.

"We can call him Will."

Sherlock hummed, and John wasn't sure if it was in agreement or not.

"He has blue eyes, just like you."

"All babies are born with blue eyes, Sherlock."

"Really?"

John watched him process that and file it away. The mind palace was probably about to become a veritable repository of information about babies.

"Though, Irene's eyes _are_ the same shade that yours take on at times. And she does have cheekbones to rival yours."

"Well, let's hope that the father was a short, blonde army doctor with loyalty to match his compassion."

John laughed heartily, the rumbling of it vibrating their arms. "I don't think Irene was quite that lucky."

"Not everyone can be."

Happy seconds ticked by, and John let himself become enveloped in the warmth. Sherlock looked at him with bright eyes.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"When can we take him home?"

* * *

**My updates have been fairly quick so far, but they will probably slow down when I start school in a few days (kill me now).**

**Again, I want to thank anyone who read. The reviews have been lovely-just like you wonderful people! xxx**


End file.
